


Darker Things

by centennnial



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Based Loosely on Durarara, Canon-Typical Violence, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Genocide Mentions, Honest to God Lions, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Keith and Shiro are Adoptive Siblings, M/M, Mostly My Tears, Motorcycles, Multi, Old Flames, Past Relationship(s), Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Shadow Monsters, Slow Burn, Some Humor, Swearing, Very old and Ancient Beings, Violence, Weekly updates (hopefully), Witches and Things, death mentions, sort of, very loosely
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-08-22 23:38:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8305630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/centennnial/pseuds/centennnial
Summary: There are some things you can't forget. Being bound to a creature of shadow for the rest of your now immortal life is one of said things. Being exiled from your home because of it is another. Being kidnapped by another race out for your demise is also one of those things that cannot be forgotten. Though it would be nice to. Everyone is a mess but they have powers and shadow lions, so it's fine.





	1. Gutter Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith is angsty, Allura and Coran make a great friend support duo, and lance and hunk are really living the high life.

_"_ I have never known hunger

Like these insects that feast on me...

A thousand teeth

_And yours among them..."_

 

* * *

 

 

The years can really pass a person by.

 

Quickly. Without a stutter; as if the world's moving and you're not. You feel like a statue in the middle of nowhere, watching as days turn to night and the seasons cycle through.

 

It had been ten years ago, but at the same time, it felt as if no time had passed. It was clear, vivid in his memory as it would probably always be; until the day he died.

Which was, tragically, a somewhat long way away.

At times like these, he mourns that fact. He hates the idea that his life refuses to hurry up and get on with itself, when he wakes up in the middle of the night, screaming, with hair plastered over his face and drenched in sweat.

It's nights like this one where he squeezes his feet into ratty shoes, pulls on a red jacket and slings his leg over a motorcycle.

 

The vehicle hums beneath him, low and growling. It's feline in the way it slinks quietly through darkened city streets, the way the engine purrs.

He rarely wears a helmet, partially for the reason of the feeling of wind in his hair; though mostly because death seems like a far-off illusion to him, and he'd rather face it than mess up his hair.

He twists the accelerator and the engine roars loud, speeding through a red light with the heavy cheer of car horns in his wake. In the moment of sudden acceleration, he feels like he's moving in time with the earth for once. He's not being left behind, not watching as life passes him by, not even thinking about what has him on the bike in the first place. He moves at the same speed as the orbiting earth. He feels good.

He rolls through the city like that, high on adrenaline and feeling his fatigue slipping away with the wind.

 

It ends all too soon, the bike screeching to a halt on the curb, somehow managing to perfectly fit a spot between two old and battered cars. He pulls his leg over the seat and releases the handlebars, the leather gloves on his hands making a slight squeak. The motorcycle purrs slightly. He doesn't bother putting down the kickstand, just sets his sneakers on the concrete and moves forward. The motorcycle gives a low growl as he walks to a shop door, his hand braced against it. He turns around before he opens it, into the dark behind him, streetlights glancing off of the red on the bike.

"You coming?" He asks, looking at the bike. He waits a moment before shrugging.

"Fine, suit yourself."

He throws open the door, a bell jingling overhead causing him to jump a few inches in the air with a small shout.

The place is dark and he fumbles around the wall for a light switch. He can feel something warm and large by his ankles, brushing up against his calves, just as his hand finds the light switch.

 

He flicks the light on and yelps in surprise when he sees a figure seated on the couch, arms crossed and glowering.

If the surprises continue, he’ll probably die of a heart attack before thirty.

 

"It's four in the morning." The person on the couch growls, eyes narrowed. There are dark circles under their blue eyes and they look less than happy.

 

Their statement is one part genuine concern and three parts 'why the hell did you wake me up'. He’d rather not deal with an angry Altean at four in the morning, but he’d never be able to get himself back home without at least talking to her. He looks her up and down, noting the elephant onesie she’s wearing and her flyaway white plume of hair. An absolute mess is probably the best way to describe her, though he’d never say it out loud. He sighs.

 

"Sorry Allura," he mumbles, running a hand through his own long hair awkwardly. It falls loosely back into place, a stickler for habit. He shifts from foot to foot under her gaze. "I, uh, wanted to ask if you had any information on uh...." he sighs, slipping his hands from his hair and wringing them instead. He sounds desperate, tired, a bit dead. "well... y'know." He doesn’t continue, doesn’t have to. Recognition goes off behind her eyes like a lightbulb.

 

Her glare doesn't give under his nervous aura, though some part of her softens at his desperation.

She gestures to the armchair to her right, stationed to the side of a low coffee table, filled with bowls of knickknacks and piles of oddly bound books. One of them looks like it’s breathing.

 

He takes a seat, perched on the edge; head in hands and elbows on his knees.

She’s barely soft with her delivery, straight to the point when she speaks; a knife through butter.

"We've still got nothing Keith," she says, almost gently, but not. Though she has a voice that doesn't beg to be heard, but that nobody can help listen to. It's honest and a little brutal; refreshing to many who skip by on a tightrope of white lies. Refreshing to him particularly.

 

"We could've done this during opening hours instead of crushing your hopes when you should be asleep.” He shrugs. “Now tell me why this couldn’t happen in four hours instead."

He shifts nervously, dark eyes wide. He debates lying to her but decides against it.

The chair he sits in is worn, threads hanging limply from holes in the fabric and small bits of stuffing squeezing from the restraints of the cushions. He takes to twisting a loose thread around his fingers, avoiding Allura's stare.

She acts as though she doesn't notice his avoidance and crosses her legs on the couch, continuing in her inquiry.  

"So why are you really here?" She asks, folding her hands onto her lap. She looks annoyed when he doesn’t reply. “Come on, out with it.”

Keith sighs, running gloved hands through his hair again. A bad habit, obvious as a poker tell.

It's silent for awhile before Keith speaks.

"It's the dream again," he says softly. "Every night for a week now."

 

Silence. Shocked and electric with expectation.

 

“The one about… _him_?” She asks. He winces thinking about who the him is. They both know that saying the name would probably have him breaking down into a sobbing heap in Allura’s arms.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

 

“Yeah,” he replies, letting out a shaky breath; one he didn’t realise he was holding. “That one.”

It’s silent again as Allura ponders this.

“You want more Valerian potion, don’t you?” She looks disappointed when he nods. He looks away quickly.

“Keith,”

“What?”

“Look at me,” he looks her dead in the eye, her face as tired as he feels.

“You need to get help.” She says.

His jolts at that. That word. “Help”.

 

“No I don’t,” he replies, looking annoyed, curling away from her.

 

“Same nightmare, every day for a week?” Exasperated, tired-sounding. She’s unfolded her legs and is sitting up very straight, tense as a bowstring. She’s no longer a friend, she’s become a doctor. Poking, prodding, assessing. He doesn’t like it.

“It’s not normal Keith and it’s not okay. I don’t want you to keep suffering like this. I want this to be over for you.”

Her words are sterile. Blank as hospital sheets and reeking of antiseptic. He shuts his eyes against it, against the memories he can feel slipping through the cracks. _Not now, not in front of her._

“It’ll never be over Allura,” Anger, bubbling in him now. He’s regretting coming here. “Not until I find him, you know that. I’ve _told_ you that.”

It’s silent again. He’s angry still, but Allura won’t give him anything to blow it out on. She would make a good psychiatrist.

 

“Maybe he’s gone Keith,” she says and it’s so soft, so vulnerable, he can’t yell at her. He can’t scream and get lost in a fiery rage like he wants to. “Maybe you’ll never find him.”

 

The quiet is becoming a constant awkward companion.

 

“I’m going to find him,” he mumbles. “I don’t care what anybody says, I _will_ find him.”

He stands abruptly, triggering a low growl from beneath him. He can barely hear it. He needs to get home, where it’s safe. Where he can let the memories run free without hurting anyone.

“Send the Valerian to my place, I have to go.” He starts walking to the door, tripping up on the woven carpet. He must look crazy; flyaway hair, sweat stained clothes, wild eyes and staggering to the door.

_Weak._

“C’mon Shinku, I need a ride.” _Hold it together._

 

Another growl. He looks at the lion beside the couch he was previously seated on, a pulsing red, billowing smoke. He crosses his arms and glowers at him, not having it.

 

“Shinku, get the fuck up, I’m too tired for this.” He snaps. The lion grunts but doesn’t move. _Can’t stay._

“Fine, I’ll walk home then. Have fun here you lazy asshole.” He slams the door shut behind him with a loud ring from the bell, shoves his hands into his pockets and walks out into the night.

 

+++

 

They’ve always had something against having the lights on.

 

It’s either windows open or a burning candle stationed on every flat surface. But never any lights.

She thinks it’s too synthetic. It just hurts his eyes a bit.

Allura says it comes from being an 80s kid. Coran says something about advanced synapses.

 

So on an Autumn morning, the lights remain off and the window curtains are thrown wide open. The candles that haven’t sputtered out during the night are used to illuminate the dark corners that the sunlight cannot reach, filling the building with a mixture of fragrances.

She takes it in, bare feet on cold kitchen tile and white hair let free from its usual bun. She peers out the window, waiting a moment.

“Keith was here last night,” She comments, opening the window in the kitchen with a heave. A pleasant breeze whips through the house. She closes her eyes, letting it twist through her hair, lift her spirit.

 

“I thought I heard a noise,” Coran replies. He’s making breakfast only now, despite it being well past midday. Neither of the two are very good at waking up in the morning. “What was he doing here?”

“He wanted more Valerian,” she replies. Takes in one last lungful of summer air before sitting down at the table.

Coran pauses for a moment.

“The nightmare again?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He hums thoughtfully and continues to cook.

“I told him to go get help,” She continues. Coran scoffs.

“You should know not to say the ‘h’ word in front of Keith,” he says, putting something in the frying pan with a hiss. “Was he angry?”

“Quite,” she replies tersely. “He left and told me to send the Valerian to his apartment. He even left without Shinku.” She looks at her hands, dark and warm as freshly turned Earth. Gently calloused after many years of use.

“So you want to know if you should give it to him in person or not?” Coran turns around, two mugs in hand and plates resting on his forearms. He sets them down on the table and sits across from Allura, hoisting his feet onto a nearby chair. She looks up from her hands, untangling herself from the lines in her palms she long ago learnt how to read.

She sighs with relief, taking her mug of tea and cupping it in her hands, the warmth spilling through her.  

“Yes,” she says, glad that Coran understood and that she didn’t have to explain. They had been together so long they had unmatchable synergy. They often knew what one would say before they had said it. “What should I do?” Allura asks, almost meek.

Coran smooths down his moustache, thinking.

“How about I go?” He says, taking a sip of his own tea. “I think he needs to talk to someone, you know how he is when he gets like this.”

Allura nods. She knows all too well.

“Though he’s probably a bit angry with you, so I’ll go.”

Allura smiles, beyond relieved.

“Thanks Coran,” she says, taking a sip from her tea. White Jasmine, a favourite of hers.

He winks. “Anytime princess.”

 

+++

 

He ran so hard and fast that he almost passed out before he reached his apartment, sweat plastering his hair to his body. The anger was still there, but softer. Still, he smashed his way into his apartment, kicking open the door, fighting his way up the stairs.

He screamed. Hollered. Threw things. He pulled cords out of power plugs. He kicked and punched until he has nothing left. Then he flopped onto the couch and sobbed his lungs out.

 

_Weak._

 

He shook, his body wobbling under the pressure of giving in.

People say it’s a release, but it has never felt that way to him. Remembering is reliving it all. He hates it and the way it leaves him so drained he can barely breathe.

 

+++

 

Something warm and coarse against his cheek jolts him awake.

His forehead collides with the top bunk bed frame and he screams a string of profanities, grasping his head in his hands.

A groan sounds from above. He barely cracks open his eyes, waiting for the bleariness to ebb away. He finds himself eye to eye with a lion, tinted blue and staring at him intently.

“Jesus fuck Cielo,” he says, exasperated. He lets his hands fall from his injured head and uses them to pull off his sheets instead. “Why’d you do that for?”

The lion stares at him, dark eyes giving little away. He sighs, kicking his feet off of the bed and pushing an unwilling lion away so he can stand.

“Not even going to talk to me?” He snorts, shuffling his feet into a pair of slippers. Lion-themed of course. “Rude.”  

Another groan. He looks up at his roommate, barely visible beneath a heap of blankets and plush toys. He checks his alarm clock on a dresser by the bunk bed.

“Dude,” he says, giving his friend a prod, standing on his tiptoes to reach the top bunk. “Wake up, it’s 11.”

Another groan. He sighs, giving the lion in the room a look.

“I want to _eaaaaaat.”_ He says in exasperation, throwing his hands in the air. When there’s no response, he continues. “I’ll have instant noodles for breakfast again, fucking watch me.”

His friend bolts upright, squinting against the onslaught of morning light. He squints in the other boy’s direction who stares back at him with a look of wide-eyed innocence.

“Why would you do that to your body Lance?” He asks, sounding devastated. “You could make oats in ninety seconds or boil an egg for God’s sake.”

Lance laughs, opening a chest of drawers and digging around for a shirt.

“To be honest, I just wanted to wake you up,” he replies matter-of-factly. “But since you’re up, can you make food?”

His friend sighs, dark brown eyes adjusting to the light. He turns to his right.

“Come on Melemele,” he says. “We have to go feed Lance.”

A lioness appears from behind him, licking her lips and opening her jaw wide in a yawn. She’s yellow and bigger than Cielo by quite a bit.

“Yeah, same,” he says to his lion, scratching her behind the ears and yawning as well.

“Come _on_ Hunk!” Lance yells, dangling from the doorway by his long arms. He balances on one leg as he hustles his friend. “I’m _hungryyyy_.”

Hunk sighs and pulls himself out of bed, climbing down the ladder and landing gingerly on the floor with a soft thump.

“Thanks buddy,” Lance says. Hunk rolls his eyes, walking into the kitchen with Melemele close behind, landing on the floor much more elegantly.

“What do you want?” He asks, opening the fridge and peering inside. He takes stock. Eggs, butter, a couple of vegetables, some fruit and a carton of milk. He takes out the milk and gives it a sniff.

Still fine.

“Food.” Lance replies, crossing his legs in front of a low coffee table, leaning his elbows on the ebony wood.

“Thanks Lance,” he replies, pulling out the eggs and a bag of spinach. He pauses and thinks about the butter, then pulls it out as well.

“Scrambled eggs?” Hunk asks.

“Sure _querido_ ,” Lance says, now more enthralled with the TV he’s switched on.

“ _Querido?_ ” Eggs crack into a bowl, the shells are discarded. He whisks them into a deep yellow, adding milk to soften it. “What are we, married?”

Lance laughs.

“Well you are cooking breakfast for me,” Lance retorts. Cielo pushes his mane into Lance’s face, desperate for attention. Lance splutters and pushes him away, laughing.

“Not by choice,” Hunk replies under his breath, though loud enough for the other boy to hear.

“Oh fuck off.”

“Not in front of the children Lance.”

The eggs hit the frying pan with a sizzle.

It’s silent for a few moments, only the hissing of the frying pan and the voices on the TV filling the space.

“Smells good,” Lance says from the other room, now free from the lion’s mane and instead laying on him. They both watch the TV with the same aloof concentration, two peas in a pod.

Melemele licks Hunks face, standing on two feet to reach him, front paws on the counter. As if to say that he has not been forgotten. He smiles and scratches her behind the ears, giving the eggs a stir with his free hand.

 

He remembers a similar scene, standing on tip-toes over a hissing frying pan. Colourful skirts fly around him, a mixture of reds and yellows. Illuminated like a lantern by the sun spilling through the open window.

_“And you stir like this Keikikane…”_

_“Good job,”_

_“Now turn the heat down…”_

 

It’s become instinctive now. The way he cooks is less about making food and more about bringing old memories to life. Stir, turn down the heat.

Stir, turn down the heat.

 

“Huuuuuuunnnnnkkkk,” a shriek from the other room; childish and grounding. “I’m _starving_.”

Hunk sighs, running a hand through his dark hair, a deep chocolate colour illuminated by the sunlight filtering through the window. He snaps a hair elastic from his wrist and uses it to tie his hair back into a loose ponytail. He scoops the eggs onto two plates and fills cups with juice.

 

His mother would be proud.

 

“Here you go _querido,_ ” he mocks, though fondly. He sits down beside Lance, taking a sip of juice. “What’re we watching?”

“Ten Things I Hate About You,” Lance replies, taking the plate and taking a huge forkful. He chews thoughtfully. “Thish ish gwood.”

“It’s just eggs,” he mumbles with a smile.

“Yeah but your food always tastes really good,” he says. “Doesn’t matter what you make, it’s always…” He pauses, thinks.  “Special.” he says.

Hunk glows at that, beaming as bright as the sun.

“Thanks Lance,” He crows. They sit in silence for a few more moments. Comfortable and warm, filled with the breathing of two boys and two lions.

“Heard from Pidge?” Hunk asks, taking his last bite from his eggs and setting his plate down.

“Not since she got that lead a month ago.” Lance replies, setting his plate down on the table and leaning back into Cielo’s belly. “You know how she is. Finds something and then” he makes a vague motion with his hands. “Poof, gone.”

Hunk nods.

“Yeah,” he looks out the window. It’s grey now, clouds covering the sun in a neat blanket. “I hope she’s alright.”

Lance laughs at that. “She will be,” he chuckles. “Pidge can take care of herself.”

He folds his hands behind his head, lacing his fingers together and propping his legs up onto the coffee table. Hunk clears his plate before Lance knocks it over.

 

“I’m going to wash these,” he says, getting to his feet. “You have to explain what this movie’s about when I get back.”

 

 


	2. Dark 'N' Stormy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet Shiro and Pidge while Lance gets his ass to work.

"Muscle to muscle and toe to toe  
The fear has gripped me but here I go  
My heart sinks as I jump up

_Your hand grips hand as my eyes shut..."_

 

* * *

 

“Please,”

It’s spoken so softly, feather light and easily yielding; tired and broken in places. It sounds so weak under the pressure of the white light, the tightness of the restraints around his wrists, ankles and neck. He hears it, the voice, recognises it as his own. His sense of feeling starts to align with his body again until he can feel the sound in the base of his throat.  

 

“Please,”

He repeats it, eyes opening as much as they can. The light is harsh, unforgiving on his pupils. The straps keeping him where he is are unrelenting. He pulls against them, twisting his arms and legs to free himself. He feels panic rising in his throat, suffocating. He remembers a similar situation, a faint sense of recollection on the edge of his mind like a word unspoken. Stairway wit.

He takes a deep breath, scans the room around him. White walls, shadowed with a lack of light in the room. Devices sit all around him like a halo wired up to him. He notices the coarse fabric of a hospital gown, feels pain starting to take hold of him, bruises flashing purple under his rapidly moving eyes.

_Why am I here?_

_Why am I hurt?_

_Where am I?_

_Why can’t I remember anything?_

Questions swirl around in his head, making him dizzy and panicked; sore all over.

He thrashes wildly, trying to break free. His pleas come out coarse in the back of his throat, dying on his tongue.

But still he tries, unable to feel much else but pain and the stifling _fear._

He hears a continuous beeping noise from beside him, a constant blip. It’s putting him even more on edge. He pulls against the restraints again, hearing beeps pick up in pace. A heart monitor, probably connected to his thumb. It’s difficult to see with the restraint around his neck holding him down.

While struggling to see his surroundings, he catches sight of a window through the corner of his eye, overlooking an enclosed grass area. It’s darkening, almost twilight judging by the lengthening shadows across the ground. The trees bow under the weight of the coming dark, red and yellow leaves swaying in a small breeze. He closes his eyes, trying to quell the panic that’s starting to simmer in his throat. Red and yellow leaves.

The beeps speed up again, agitating him, making him more anxious. He tries to fight it back. Counting to ten, in and out, need to think. Failing miserably. He hears the beeps getting faster and faster as footsteps sound up the hall.

A door to his right, opposite the window, opens with a click. The light outside is brighter than that of the room he’s in, leaving the figure shrouded in shadow. It rushes in, urgency in their being.

“Oh, you’re awake,” they say, concern and surprise evident. The voice sounds masculine and gentle. Though the beeps of the heart monitor don’t slow down.

The figure comes into view and he can make out a face, pale and weathered with age.

“I’m Dr Palmer,” They state, pulling up a chair and sitting beside the bed he’s strapped to. He tugs against them slightly, feeling more nervous. He wishes he weren’t so obvious, but the panic and fear is still raw within him. The doctor looks at the straps for a moment.

“I’m sorry about the restraints,” The doctor says. “You were half delirious when we brought you in, tried to run away and harm some the staff earlier. Had to strap you down so we could perform surgery.”

He gulps, tries to think back to something earlier than now, but sooner than winter. Gets nothing.

“Surgery on what?” He asks.  He can barely remember a thing save for waking up here and a nagging feeling of leaving someone behind, letting someone down. The doctor thinks this over.

“Can I just get your name and age first,” he says. “Then I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have.”

He squints at the doctor for a moment, trying to recall something, anything, that could give him a clue as to what he was doing here and what the hell happened in surgery. After a few moments of expectant silence he sighs, giving in.

“My name is Shirogane Takashi,” he says softly. “I’m twenty-seven years old.”

“Thank you Shirogane-”

“Just Shiro is fine.”

The doctor nods. “Thank you Shiro,” he says. “Now if you have any questions, I’ll do my best to answer them.”

He tries to sit up, but then feels the restraint on him again. He deflates, lying back down again.

“Yeah, I have a few.” He begins. “First, what did I need surgery for? And why can’t I remember anything?”

“You can’t remember anything?” the doctor seems surprised. That’s a concern. “Nothing at all?”

He shakes his head. “I can remember everything up until winter, and it’s Autumn now.” He recalls the leaves through the window, yellowing and dropping from the branches. No snow as it had been from when he could remember.

“And you didn’t answer my question, what did I need surgery for?”

The doctor looks at him with a strange expression, eyes weary.

“Your right arm was…” he pauses, trying to think of the correct wording before continuing. “Heavily infected by something I’ve never seen before.” He shakes his head slightly.

“And?” Shiro can feel the anxiety rising up again, filling his chest with a heavy pressure.

“We had to amputate to prevent the spread,” the doctor continues, clasping his hands together in his lap. “It was the best we could do all things considered.”

The doctor continues talking, but Shiro has better things to think about. Slowly, as if moving too fast would make him crumble on the spot, he looks down at his right arm. The restraint around his neck tugs him back, begs him not to look. He fights it, glances at his arm...

Or what would be if he had one.

 

He stares at the remaining stub of his arm, bandaged tightly around the end. Despite seeing that there’s nothing there, he still feels as though he’s moving his fingers. Extending them, making a fist. But There’s nothing there but a small remnant of half his bicep and the echo of feeling firing through his synapses.

Everything seems distant and far away, the doctor is looking at him with concern.

“Shiro,” the doctor says, a hand on his shoulder, jolting him back. “Are you okay?”

Shiro closes his eyes tightly for a moment.

He processes, breaks down the situation.

“ _Heavily infected, by something I’ve never seen before….”_

He should ask the doctor about the details of the infection. That should be the priority. No need to panic. Deep breath. Count to ten. In and out...

He opens his eyes and gives the doctor his best smile.

“I’m fine,” He says. “Absolutely fine.”

 

+++

 

The cold in this town can bite.

A beast with a strong jaw, sinking its teeth into her body despite all of the layers she wears.

She wishes she could be inside right now, curled up on her bed with a computer, a cup of tea and her cat. But she has something she needs to do and somewhere she needs to be.

And that’s outside in this cold weather, wind whipping through tufts of her tawny brown hair and rubbing her nose red.

She wraps herself up in the scarf around her neck, bouncing back and forth on the balls of her feet to keep the blood in her body circulating. She’s already starting to feel impatient, despite only have been at the agreed upon location (an abandoned gas station) for about two minutes.

Though it’s not as if she really wanted to be here in the first place, half dead in a tiny town in Canada. No way did she pack appropriately either. Just because autumn is warm where she comes from doesn’t mean it is everywhere in the world. But it’s not her fault she was raised in Arizona, land of unbelievable heatwaves. Nope. It was the rest of the world’s fault for being this fucking cold.

 

“You Pidge Gunderson?”

She hears, from somewhere she can’t see through a thick fog growing. She squints through it, wiping her snow-covered glasses to get a better look.

“Who’s asking?” She calls into the fog. Her voice is sharp as the wind, no-nonsense and to the point.

A figure steps out, walking low enough that they seem a bit shifty, but casting looks over their shoulder that shows they’re as nervous as she is. Probably less experienced too.

“JustcallmeCarter on craigslist?” He says, his face coming into view through the haze. He looks less nervous than uncertain, contemplating the consequences of just legging it judging by his darting gaze and unwelcoming posture. Arms crossed, brow furrowed, half of his body facing away from her. Subconscious things that can be easily learned to be read like a book. He reminds her of a wolf separated from its pack, hackles raised and hair standing on end. Lips curled into a snarl.

She’s not any less hostile, probably even more so with that voice of hers. The first thing she does when she sees him is decide how best to take him in a fight. He’s much taller than her (which isn’t hard to be) and generally bigger all around (again, not difficult) but not muscular. A punch to the gut and he’d be down, probably wouldn’t even expect it either.

She sighs, pushing pack tawny hair from her eyes. The melting snow has dampened it, leaving it to cling mercilessly to her round glasses. A pet-peeve.

“Yeah,” she admits, holding her hands up in a somewhat friendly gesture. She needs this guy’s information and scaring the shit out of him is not the best way to get it from him. “I’m Pidge Gunderson. Just call me Pidge.”

He laughs, finding the play on his internet handle funny. Some of the tension in his shoulders dissipates, he’s more relaxed. She’s warmed him up a little, now she swoops in.

“So what’s your connection to Kerberos?” She asks, hands in pockets. It’s a big question, but her nonchalant air takes off some of the edge.

“Do you have the money?” He asks. Pidge sighs.

It’s been a long day for her.

Getting on a plane at four in the morning to get to this cold wasteland, being drooled on by the girl next to her, having to trudge through a good twenty yards of knee-deep snow and finally coming here and being asked if she brought the fucking money.

Needless to say, she’s a bit angry.

“No, knucklehead,” She snips. “I came out here to the middle of Coldland to get some information and forgot the cash which, might I add, we agreed very wholeheartedly on. Who do you think I am?”

The cold’s made her impatient, the wet socks made her feel pissed. Carter looks a little taken aback, but he swallows back some kind of retort and/or the urge to get the hell out of this old, snowy gas station.

“Can I see?” He asks. Pidge mutters something rude under her breath, dropping a rucksack from her shoulder to the ground and squatting to rummage through it.

She pulls out a roll of green notes, held together by a red rubberband. She waves it sarcastically through the air. _Here it is._

Carter nods. He licks his two front teeth with his tongue, thinking how to word his next few sentences.

“I was a part of the Kerberos investigation,” He explains after a few beats of Pidge squatting with a wad of cash in her hand and Carter standing awkwardly in now ankle-deep snow. “Just an entry-level guy who sorted through the data reports that the investigators gave to me. I was mostly with the science guys who worked on it. The head autopsist sent in some dodgily marked files so I had to take it up with him in person. ‘Cept when I went to go meet with him at the lab I was told he hadn’t signed in for days.

Actually, the whole investigation team was gone. Just vanished without a trace. Apparently they had been missing for weeks and nobody had noticed. Some leadership error or something.”

He shrugs, thinking little of it. “Can I have my money now?”

Pidge is standing now, her full five foot nothing. “What was the name of the autopsist?” She asks, urgency in her tone. “The one with the dodgy files?”

He thinks about it for a moment. “I think it was something Asian?” Carter replies, the statement raised in a question. “Shirokane? Gane? I don’t remember, it was a long time ago.”

Pidge nods, yanking a notebooks from her pocket and scribbling the name down as fast as possible.

“That’ll do,” she replies. She throws him the money and he lunges to catch it, grabbing it just before it falls into the snow. “Thanks for the info Carter, real help.” She tosses the bag over her shoulder, not even making eye contact with the cold boy she leaves in the snow. Just like that, she’s gone; muttering something about Japanese colours and a Plutonian moon as she trudges through the snow leaving a trail of footprints and unanswered questions behind.

 

+++

 

“I’ll punch a bee, I don’t give a fuck.”

 

He’s sitting on a train, legs propped up on the opposite seat in the exact way that the signs say not to. He sits slouched, honey brown eyes cast to the dark innards of a tunnel outside. A phone rests between his cheek and his shoulder, the heat welcome in the unheated metal body of a train.

 

“Poor bee,” Hunk says on the other end of the line, his voice sounding slightly distracted. “It’s not its fault that you have to go to work.”

Lance huffs, taking the phone from his right cheek and into his left hand. “Well who else am I going to blame?” He murmurs.

“Maybe yourself for taking these dumb shifts?” Hunk replies.

“They’re not dumb,” defensive, eyes flashing. “I’m a _bartender,_ Hunk, I’m supposed to work late.”

“I’m still blaming you,”

“Rude.”

“You’re missing out on so much fun here, Melemele and I have ranked up to plat on Overwatch.”

“What’s Melemele doing,” Lance asks, genuinely confused. “She’s a lion, she doesn’t have opposable thumbs.”

“You don’t need opposable thumbs to provide motivational support,” Hunk replies matter-of-factly. “Besides, Mele has the best instincts, she’s gotten me out of a few tight jams.”

“I feel like that’s cheating,”

“You’re cheating,”

“Ouch, what a burn.”

Hunk laughs over the line. It’s silent for a few moments, the two comfortable with the residual presence of their breathing over the phone.

“Oh, Pidge is online.” Hunk says after a few seconds, breaking the silence.

“Shit, already?” Lance sits up straight, feet coming down from the opposite seats. “Where’d she go?”

“Hold up,” Hunk replies and Lance can hear keyboard clicks. “I’ll ask her, one sec.”

Another silence, anticipation like static through the air.

“Winnipeg, apparently.” Hunk replies.

“Where the fuck is Winnipeg?” Lance hears Hunk repeat the question to Pidge, minus the obscenity.

“Somewhere cold in Canada.” Hunk replies. He can hear Pidge’s voice through Hunk’s headset, though not enough to make out words. “Just talking to Lance.”

“Hi Pidge!” Lance yells, sending a few eyes of the people on the train his way. He pokes his tongue out at them and continues his conversation.

“Lance says hi,” Hunk repeats, exasperation heavy in his tone. “Hey Lance, can I call you back on your break? Pidge and I just got put into a game and I don’t want to de-rank right away.”

Lance chuckles slightly. “Yeah sure man, hope you win.” He says.

“Pidge says bye too,”

“Bye Pidge,”

“Lance says bye.” He repeats to Pidge. “Okay, see ya Lance. Don’t give anyone your number tonight, we don’t need another incident.”

“Yeah, whatever. Bye.”

Hunk hangs up first just as Lance catches the foreboding music in the background signalling the beginning of the match. He sighs, looking at his phone, swiping through pages of apps with no intention of clicking on one.

It’s 11pm. At this rate he’ll make it to work by 11:30, which he thinks is when his shift starts.

Last week’s shift started at 12am, the night before the “incident”. Or morning of, depending on your take on it. He was pumping out alcohol to long-gone party addicts when he spotted a girl walking up to him, getting a drink for herself (a Dark N Stormy with extra rum). He chatted her up a bit, gave her a drink on the house (a Mai Tai)  and slipped her a napkin with his number on it. Fast forward nine hours and he’s receiving nonstop calls from people who want his credit card number. How that girl knew so many scammers is a mystery to him still, but even worse is the fact that he fell for it at least once.

Eight hundred dollars later he’s left wary of lo but no less likely to dish out his number.

 

He crosses his arms and props his feet back up on the seat opposite him, watching the darkness of the tunnel go by. His mind wanders to thoughts of the company he’s likely to get tonight. It’s a bleak Friday, lacking in the spark and fervor that would usually bring big groups of people out for a good time. The week has been equally dismal, temperatures falling as Autumn takes its hold on the city and clouds leaving rain in the gutters. The crowd will probably be the old, depressed kind, the ones that will order pint after pint and tell you their whole life story. Lance is quietly hoping that Patricia will be there. She’s one of his favourites, a middle aged woman with shellac on her nails and fire in the way she speaks. She always has some good stories to tell him, one of his all-time favourites being the tale of her chihuahua getting gum in its fur before a show.

His attention is brought back to the real world as Cielo licks his face. Lance startles, jumping up in his seat.

“Stop it,” he says, pushing the lion’s head back down into the seat which he’s curled in. “Geez Cielo, can you not do that here? Someone might _see_ you.”

Cielo gives a low growl and puts his head dejectedly back into his paws. Lance sighs and gives him a small scratch behind the ears. “Sorry buddy,” he murmurs, tired sounding. “I know it’s been five years, but…. I’m still not used to it.”

‘ _Not used to what?’_

He almost shudders when he hears the sound. Less of a voice and more ideas fed into his brain that he can somehow translate. It sounds like it’s coming from everywhere at once, but at the same time, trapped in the confines of his skull. It’s so ancient and all-knowing, like a deity. Though sometimes it’s childish and playful. It confuses him deeply.

“Just…” He pauses, looking for the right words. He gives up and gestures vaguely instead, making a face. “ _This.”_

 _‘Is it because I am a blue lion?”_ Cielo asks, head tilted to the side. There it is, childish again.   _‘If I were yellow, would I be better for you?’_

Lance laughs, relaxing again.

“Then I’d have to call you Amarillo,” he replies.

 _‘You’re right,’_ He says. _‘Amarillo is a terrible name, I am grateful to be blue so that I may have the name Cielo.”_

 

Lance’s laughter is cut short by the sound of his stop ringing over the speaker. He stands up slowly, masking Cielo from view with his body.

“Can you do the thing?” He asks.

 _‘I can do many things,’_ Cielo replies, confused. ‘ _You must be more specific.’_

Lance sighs.

“The shadow thing,” Lance says. Without another word, Cielo turns to a blue tinted shadow on the floor. He quietly slinks into Lance’s shadow, folding up and resting there.

 

He exits the train as the doors start closing, a bag draped loosely over his shoulder and station lights glinting in his eyes. He puts his train ticket in the exit gate and checks his shadow over his shoulder. There’s a barely noticeable blue tint to it that makes him feel more secure, lighter.

With a spring in his step, he walks into the onslaught of cold Autumn air and the blaring sound of traffic. The train station was so quiet in comparison, a forest of tranquility in this shithole of a suburb. With a sigh, he takes of down the main street, checking for the blue tint in his shadow the whole way.

 

Lance struts into the bar, welcomed by the smell of stale beer and bad cigarettes. A few people are already passed out on the benches, the space around them littered with empty bottles and the stench of something sad. He heads straight past them all and into the back room, closing the door shut behind him and hanging his bag up on the wall. He pulls out his phone and wallet and slips them into his jeans pockets.

He’s worked with all of the people here since he left home, would trust them with his life. But not with his phone.

He looks over his shoulder again, the habit putting a strain on his neck.

“You can stay here if you want,” He says to his shadow. He waits a moment.

The shadow behind him starts to grow, sinews of blue-dark wrapping themselves around each other to form a lion once more.

“Great,” Lance says, giving him a grin. “Have fun.”

There’s a pause while Cielo looks at him, licks his lips and then lays down on the floor.

_Guess we’re not talking then._

 

He walks out of the light of the back room and into the neon-tinged darkness of the bar. Smoothing his shirt down, he takes his place behind the counter after tapping the dude taking his place on the shoulder and telling him to leave.

He looks around him and sees exactly what he was expecting. A sad gang of middle-aged people drinking down their sorrows. A few guys huddle around a pool table, arguing in alcohol fueled gibberish. A man in his late forties sits alone at a table, singing something to himself. Off-key and beer-stained. Another lady sits in the far corner, chugging down a bottle of wine like it’s water. Even the up-tempo music that he’d usually love  feels lame in the atmosphere. He sighs, pulling a flask out from below the counter and taking a sip.

 

It was going to be a long ass night.

 

+++

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so! i'm still trying to figure out where exactly i want t go with this, so the next update will probably be a tad slower than this one (i apologise). also, i'm sorry about having no interaction between keith and lance for the last two chapters. next one, i promise!  
> music is here: ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nPlXdFwWcV4 ) cw: abuse, bright colour flashes.  
> thanks for reading~


	3. Dancing Neon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance and Keith meet in a bar, Pidge tells Hunk about her lead and Allura makes a shocking discovery.

__"And I came to write a letter,  
But my pen was full of hymns.  
I came to drown a sorrow,  
It seems they've learned to swim..."

* * *

 

 

Tired becomes less of a feeling and more of a state of being after the third day of being wide awake.  

His sleeping schedule is usually a mess, but after what happened with Allura, the voices in his head keep him awake all night. His internal monologue goes from its usual rude to savage and not in a ha-ha way. 

The day after what happened with Allura, Coran came with the Valerian. Keith could see him through the peephole in his door, watched him on tip-toes. He was grateful for the fact that peepholes are one-way as he tried to convince himself to  _ open the damn door.  _

_ He’s here to make you get help.  _

Not true.

_ He hates you.  _

Please.

_ He’s angry.  _

Stop.

He stood there for half an hour until Coran finally gave up and walked off with a small shrug and a note under his door telling him that he had come around. He stood there, frozen solid until the sun went down and his knees buckled.

He had held his head in his hands, sinking to the floor in front of the door sobbing quietly. 

 

_ Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid… _

 

He hasn’t left the spot since then, the sobs wracking his body every time he tries to do something; move, swallow, breathe. He’s frustrated and tired and hungry and broken for  _ no goddamn reason.  _

 

It has to stop. He’s too tired to stay awake another day, might starve if he doesn’t eat soon. It’s stupid and it makes no sense, but on a Friday night, day three of his vigil; he steps outside and hightails it to a bar. 

He knows full well that alcohol isn’t a food, but it’ll make him feel a little less empty. 

 

He’s glad it’s quiet today, despite it being a Friday night. At 12am, it should be jam packed with writhing bodies and teeming with loud music. But it’s not, the aura is dull and sad; miserable even. He feels right at home, all red-rimmed eyes and sweat stained shirt. He realises he hasn’t showered in forever, but the rank smell of the bar masks his own.

Shoving his hands into his jeans pockets and ducking his head slightly to seem less obvious, he walks in. Nobody pays him any mind except for a bored bartender across the room, his head perking up from its place in his crossed arms when he sees a fresh face. 

His skin is dark, especially in the dancing neon lights that casts his face in shadow, his eyes seem to glow slightly. Keith sits down in front of him, leaning his elbows on the table; refusing to make smalltalk.

“Red death please,” He says, voice coming out weaker than he expected it. It’s croaky and tear-soaked, a sapling whipped away by a hurricane. He clears his throat slightly as the bartender raises his eyebrows. He shrugs, turning around to get the ingredients. Keith watches him, finding a bit of joy in taking in every detail of something, someone, new. After staying in the same room, seeing all the same things for three days, his eyes are desperate. The bartender’s long-limbed and tall, all shoulders and bone. His arms jut out of him like leafless tree branches, fragile but capable to weather storms. He looks like he’s spent years in this shape of his, his movements not clunky but graceful. Keith can’t help but stare. 

He turns around, catching Keith’s eyes on him. He grins, cocky. 

The bartender pours the contents of the cocktail shaker into a glass and slides it over to him, droplets falling from the outside of the glass and onto the counter.

It’s silent for awhile as Keith takes a few tentative sips, glad for the slight buzz it gives him after awhile. It doesn’t feel good, but it feels better than it did just moments ago. There’s less of an edge to the emptiness, less volume to the voices. He catches the bartender staring at him and raises an eyebrow at him. 

“What?” He asks, setting the drink back down on the bench. Half finished already. The bartender seems to snap back to reality, eyes refocusing on him. 

“Oh, sorry,” He mutters, a chuckle in the back of his throat. “Just nice to see a new face after an hour trapped in here.” 

Keith narrows his eyes, knows the feeling all too well. “So you’re bored?” He queries, cocks his head to the side. The bartender grins. Genuine rather than goading, white teeth shining lilac in the artificial lights. 

“You get it,” he replies, pulling a flask from behind the counter and taking a sip. “So what’s your name then fresh-face?”

Keith continues to scrutinise this man under a weary gaze. It’s silent for awhile as Keith sizes up his options, tries to understand this guy who’s… talking to him? Unusual. The bartender doesn’t seem to mind his silence, takes the time that Keith is not speaking to him to refill his flask. He’s pretty sure that’s not allowed, but he’s not one to judge. Not speaking to your only two friends in the world for three days after leaving them in a fit of rage is probably not allowed either, so he has no place to say anything. 

“My name’s Lance by the way,” he pipes up suddenly, startling Keith. “Just in case you didn’t want to go first.” Keith finishes his drink, rolling the name around in his head. 

_ Lance.  _

Sounds familiar to him, something on the edge of his brain. He sifts through his memories, tries to dig up something. A flash of feeling, like a memory of a dream, but nothing more. 

“Keith,” he splutters suddenly, surprising himself and Lance with his outburst. “That’s uh…” He pauses, recollects himself.  “That’s my name.” 

“Well Keith,” Lance replies, hardly skipping a beat. A bouncing ball, thrown at the floor and coming right back up. “What brings you down here on the saddest Friday night I have seen in my entire twenty-one years of life?” 

Keith can’t help but snort at that, thinking of the remorseful air of this bar. He can’t help but agree with him, taking a thoughtful sip from his glass. 

“Just out,” he replies nonchalantly. “Spent a bit too much time in the house this week and decided it’d be nice to go somewhere.” 

Lance raises an eyebrow, uncertainty at his words prickling in his gaze. But he doesn’t press it, just shrugs and crosses his arms on the bench; chin resting on them. 

“Fair enough,” He responds. His gaze wanders around the bar, tracing the movement of lights on the ceiling. He’s closer to him than he has been to anyone in weeks and Keith notices freckles speckled across the bridge of his nose. His  forehead and cheekbones too; little stars in the galaxy of his face. 

He shakes his head, moves back a little, throwing badly tied up black hair into his eyes. It takes some edge off of the situation, obscures some of the stimuli around him so that he can focus, regroup with himself. Think. 

“Any other plans for tonight?” Lance asks suddenly. Keith starts, wonders what his thought process must be. How he feels able to speak after periods of silence without feeling awkward. He sighs, tucking some hair behind his right ear, feeling it immediately slip free and tickle the corner of his eye with its presence. 

“Might just go home,” he replies, quietly so as not to startle Lance and himself. “Drink until I fall asleep.” 

“Don’t sleep on your back.” Lance retorts, not skipping a beat, like he ever would. Keith looks up.

“What?” He says, confused. 

“If you sleep on your back you can choke on your own vomit in the middle of the night,” He shrugs like he doesn’t think much of it, pushing it off with a simple up-down of his shoulders. “Not pretty, very gross.” 

Keith thinks it over. He’s heard of things like that, even all the way back in high school when he had to do a First Aid Course. His mind rumbles; a beast shudders. He blocks the section of his brain off before it can let anything through.  _ Not now.  _

“Thanks for the tip,” Keith replies, croaks almost. He looks at the bottom of his empty glass. “Can I get another?” 

Lance nods enthusiastically. 

“Don’t get many people who ask for a Red Death,” he laughs. “Sounds like an edge-lord’s wet dream.” 

Keith snorts again, less snide and more accepting. “Guilty as charged,” He replies, a slight grin playing on the corner of his lips, an unexpected visitor at the tail-end of the worst three days he’s had in a year. 

“Oh my God,” Lance laughs, pouring him his second drink of the night. “Do you like, listen to Numb by Linkin Park on repeat 24/7?” 

Keith takes a long swig from the glass. “Fuck you,” He replies, almost genuinely offended but the grin still stays. “That’s a great song.” 

There’s silence for a moment and Keith panics for the slightest of moments.  _ Too much? _

Then Lance starts pissing himself laughing almost falling on the floor with shaky chuckles. Keith watches him, unamused, but there’s that grin. 

When he recovers and Keith has finished his second glass, Lance speaks up again. 

“Why Red Death though edgelord?” He asks, now leaning his palms on the counter and swinging back and forth  on his heels. “You know, other than being the edgiest drink for only the edgiest fucking teens.”

Keith shrugs, thinks, glowers at Lance. “It’s uh…” he pauses, biting his lip, remembering. “It’s the only drink I know I like to be honest.” 

Lance doesn’t laugh like Keith expects him to and Keith ducks his head nervously. Avoiding those eyes of his with his own. 

“Holy shit dude,” Lance exclaims and Keith flinches. Lance must notice, because his voice dips in volume. “You’re missing out on a whole fucking world!” 

He swivels around quickly, looking through bottles for something, clinking noises filtering through the space between them. 

“Can I make you something?” He asks, voice muffled from being turned away from Keith. “On the house, don’t worry about that.” 

Keith looks up cautiously. “Uh…” he mumbles. “Yeah, sure…. Thanks.” 

Lance grabs some bottles, some things from below the counter and pours hem into the shaker. He’s fast, graceful, practiced. He pours it into a glass in a few seconds, a routine well-known to his hands and etched into the memory of his muscles.The drink is orange in colour, the light reflecting off the condensation on the outside of the glass. 

“It’s called a highball,” Lance says, sliding it over to him. “With vodka and orange juice since you liked the edge lord's wet dream so much.” 

Keith looks it over a few times, picks it up, sniffs the contents suspiciously. 

“I promise it isn’t poison,” Lance says, lacing his fingers behind his head, leaning back into them while still standing. “Like, it’s alcohol, so I guess it is kinda poison,” He adds, thinking about it.  “But not anymore poison than any alcohol is.” 

Keith looks at it again, takes a tentative sip. 

“Oh wow,” he murmurs, eyes wide with wonder. “That’s really good.” 

Lance fingerguns him with a cocky smirk. 

“Knew you’d love it,” He says. “It’s pretty basic anyways, not a lot to dislike.”

Keith drains the entire glass in two gulps, he puts it down on the counter, an equally shy and sly smile dancing over his lips. Lance’s smirk vanishes into a look of surprise. He can’t help but chuckle a bit at that.

“Another one, please,” Keith requests, the please coming out as a shy afterthought. 

“O-okay,” Lance makes him another. He chugs it down in three gulps this time. The sadness in him is far off, his body is starting to tingle. He feels light and happy, jubilant for the first time since he last got shit-faced drunk. He has nowhere to be, nobody who needs him and nothing to hold him down. 

He feels genuinely  _ good.  _

“Another one, please,” He smiles and it lights up his face. Easy, carefree. Lance tentatively makes him another one, unable to refuse that damn  _ smile.  _

“Are you feeling alright?” He asks. “You’ve had five drinks already, which is actually a lot, if you didn’t know.” 

“I feel great,” he says. “For the first time in, I dunno, three years?” He laughs. Not the snort or the scoff, but the honest-to-god giggle. 

Lance sighs. It’s not the first time he’s seen someone drunk, not by a longshot. 

“One more,” he replies. “But then I’m cutting you off edge lord. Do you need me to call you a taxi?” 

Keith shakes his head, sending the room spinning on its axis. He can feel the Earth hurtling passed the sun in that moment. He sees stars like the freckles dotted on Lance’s forearms. 

“I’m just on the next block,” he replies. Warbles and stumbles over his words a little. He looks at  the highball on the table that Lance has made, refilling his old glass. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.” 

“You sure you’re okay to walk home on your own?” He asks. 

“I told you not to worry,” Keith responds, rests his elbows on the counter. He drinks the next glass slower, savouring the flavour rather than the buzz the alcohol gives him. “But thanks, Lance.” 

Lance gives him a nervous smile. “No problem, Keith.” He murmurs. 

They sit in silence for awhile as Keith drinks and Lance wipes down the bench, casting Keith wary glances over his shoulder every now and again. When Keith finishes the cup he stands up, wobbles a little and starts to walk away. 

“See you around,” He says, casting a wave over his shoulder as he pads out of the bar. Lance watches him go, a little lonelier than moments before. “Thanks again.” Keith adds at the door.

And with that, at one in the morning, he leaves. 

 

+++

 

“If you wall us up into spawn one more time I  _ will  _ cause you pain.” 

“Wow, are you making a  _ threat  _ Hunk? I guess Mei really does bring out the worst in people.” 

 

Hunk groans, as another wall comes up, blocking the entire team into the spawnpoint. If being utterly done with a friend’s bullshit was a job, Hunk would be a CEO. 

“I’m going to block you.” He mumbles into the the headset. 

“That’s  _ my _ job,” Pidge replies after a bout of witch-like cackles. 

The wall finally comes down and the team exits the spawn as fast as possible, slightly traumatised by the events of the match. 

“So what was Winnipeg like?” Hunk asks vacantly, making conversation as his team marches into battle warily. 

“Cold as fuck,” Pidge replies. “Reaper on the right.” She adds. 

“What were you doing there?” He turns a corner, has a few projectiles thrown into his face by aforementioned reaper. He sighs, leaning back onto Mele who gives a wide-mouthed yawn. 

“Digging up a lead on my brother and dad,” She replies. There’s a sound of keyboard smashing on the other end of the headset. “Fuck that, I’m leaving this bullshit.” Hunk watches his screen as he’s removed from the game by the sheer force of Pidge’s sulkiness, being propelled back to the main menu. 

“Did you find anything?” Hunk asks. 

“Barely,” Pidge replies. “I got something about a guy named Shirogane; ran his information through a couple of searches and found out he went missing two years ago. So dead end there.” 

“That sucks, Pidge,” Hunk murmurs, lacing his fingers behind his head and readjusting so he’s more comfortable. “Are you alright? Being let down like that…” 

“I’m fine Hunk,” Pidge replies, flatly; too quick. “Anyways, I’ve got a program running that’ll let me know if and when something about him comes up over a call to any of the missing persons lines, the police department, fire department and 911. Also, I’m going to go talk to this one guy tomorrow who put up missing posters of him a few months after he disappeared.” 

“Please don’t pull an all-nighter watching your screen,” 

“Fuck you,” Pidge snaps.  “I’m an adult and can make regrettable life choices if I want to.” 

“You literally turned eighteen a month ago.” 

“I literally will fight you if you don’t stop talking.” 

“Gosh, just when I thought I was doing something nice for a friend.” 

“You questioned my triple Bastion strategy,” Pidge retorts. “We are no longer friends. I’m done here, going to go chill with my  _ real  _ friends.” 

“Goodnight Pidge,” Hunk replies, unfazed by her words. “Tell Celery I said hi.” 

“Celery says fuck you,” Pidge responds. “Bye Hunk.” 

The line goes dead and Hunk takes off the headset, resting it on the keyboard. He checks the time, finds that it’s almost 3am. Lance should be home soon. 

Melemele licks his forehead absently and Hunk laughs. 

_ ‘You’re worried cub,’  _ She murmurs and Hunk starts. It has been days since she last spoke to him. He received feelings from her, impressions and tiny thoughts, but no words. ‘ _ What’s wrong?’  _

“Just have a bad feeling,” he mumbles, giving her a scratch behind the ears. “It’s nice to hear your voice again.” 

Mele purrs slightly, a deep rumble than makes his lungs buzz. 

_ ‘A bad feeling from one like you is not something to be taken lightly,’  _ Melemele says, gentle and soft in his mind.  _ ‘What kind of bad feeling is it, cub?’  _

“I just feel like,” he pauses, thinks for a moment. “I feel like there’s something new, something odd that’s… messing with the balance, I guess.”

Mele licks her lips.  _ ‘That’s a large statement,’  _ she says.  _ ‘I suppose time will tell. Though why is it you are worried? Is it about the blue boy?’  _

Hunk smiles slightly, but it feels a little wrong on his face. “You know me very well,” He mumbles, voice quiet and uncertain. “He should be home by now. I hate when he takes the late night shifts, I worry about him until he gets back.” He laughs slightly. “I feel like a doting housewife.” 

Mele licks his forehead again, comforting him in the way she knows best. She is silent again, save for the sounds of her breathing which mingles with that of his own as the two fall into a comfortable sleep. 

 

+++

 

At four in the morning, on the side of the city with the tallest trees and the longest grass, Allura jolts to waking. 

For a person who generally won’t wake up until noon, it’s a surprise for everyone, including herself. Especially when she’s left drenched in sweat and images flying through her head faster than she can think.

She runs out of her room, flinging herself forcibly from her bed and trudging barefoot through the house. 

She flies into the kitchen, pulling out a black bowl carved with intricate symbols from a cupboard above the sink. With a shaking hand, she fills it up with water from the tap. She lights a candle on the low coffee table for the sake of her vision and sits down in front of the bowl, crossing her legs on the floor. 

She closes her eyes, focuses herself onto the presence of the water, its stillness. The candle flickers behind her eyelids, casting her thoughts into a warm peachy glow. She brings up images of lions and shadow, conjures them in her mind and focuses it sharply into the bowl.

Her eyes open, blue reflected back to her in the water. It ripples despite there being no force acting upon it and an image appears to her through the slight haze. 

She sees the interior of what looks like a hospital room, sterile and filled with machines. Artificial and antiseptic smelling, she catches a whiff of the place through the bowl and scrunches up her nose. She has never liked these places, nor what they entail. She asks the water to show her the bed which should be in the room, despite wanting desperately to leave the place. It ripples in response, the image changing slowly to that of a figure sitting upright in the bed, looking down at their hands. She can’t make out much from this distance, the dull light from outside the room giving her little to see by. She makes out broad muscled shoulders, short hair and the waves of a hospital gown. 

She looks closely, squinting to make out the features. She asks the water to show her more closely, and when it complies, her entire being jolts. 

_ Shiro.  _

She clamps a hand over her mouth, shock plastered across her face in a wide-eyed stare. 

It’s him. After two years of having vanished without a trace, she stares him dead in the eye through only a loose barrier of water. 

_ But why?  _

She has always been looking for him, since the day he went missing and even times before that. But tonight her dreams had not been haunted with images of him, but of the black lion. That was what she had been woken with dreams of at four in the morning. For once, it had not been him. 

She looks at the image again, asks the water to show her the black lion. The water does not budge, continues to show her the image of him, similar to one that has haunted her for years. 

He’s changed. What was once silky black hair is now white in places and greying in others. A scar crosses the bridge of his nose, one that’s old enough to have almost become the same shade of his skin. He also looks more frightened, jumpier. The spark in his eyes is gone and he holds himself as though Atlas, carrying the weight of the sky on his shoulders. 

She watches him, sitting there with his hands in his lap, dark eyes vacant and wearing an expression as blank as his hospital gown. He extends the fingers of his right hand, clenches it into a fist, looking at it with a sense of disgust and wonder. Confusion. 

She sees it then, a slight ripple in reality. The world seems to bend around the arm as it changes shape, transforms. She watches as the arm disappears and becomes replaced with a large lion, lying on his lap. 

Allura audibly gasps at seeing the black lion and his lack of a limb for the first time. 

He looks at the lion, a lioness actually, bigger than any she has seen before. 

_ ‘There is no need to reject me,’  _ The lion says. Allura can hear it through the water. A ghostly echo that sends chills riveting through her spine.  _ ‘I can help you, there’s no need to be upset.’  _

Then, for the first time Allura has seen him after two years, Shiro speaks. 

“I don’t want this,” He says. His voice comes out weak, fragile. She feels as though she is intruding on something private, a moment she shouldn’t see. “I don’t want to be you  _ vessel  _ or whatever it is that I am to you.” 

_ ‘A paladin,’  _ the lioness states, firmly without a doubt in her. Not a stutter or a break. It’s not convincing or persuasive but rather,  it leaves no other option then the one it states.  _ ‘And you don’t get a say in the matter. I have chosen you as my paladin, my keeper. There is no other path for you.’  _

He looks at the lion with something of belief. Allura can only imagine how it feels. Being gone for so long, enduring who knows what, only to finally come home and be given a new fate without any say in it. 

Shiro holds himself, curls up into the weakness he’s been trying to hide as though someone was watching to judge him for feeling. The facade crumbles in front of her and he bursts into tears, holding his head in his one hand. The lioness doesn’t budge, simply watches him as he unfurls before her.

Allura turns away, shoving the bowl to the other side of the table. She can still hear him breaking through the water, sobbing through gaps in his fingers and the unforgiving harshness of the lioness lying on his lap, spreading her shadows across the sheets. It is not for her to see, nor can she bear the feeling of seeing him as broken as he is. 

It takes what feels like hours for him to choke out his last sob. He looks at his lion with red-rimmed eyes and tear tracks down his cheeks. His expression is part desperation and another part steady, calculating. 

“Why me?” He asks her, quietly, voice hoarse from ripping his throat raw with sobs. “I’m a mess, I can’t remember a thing from the past year at  _ least _ , I’m missing an arm and I keep getting this paralysing  _ fear  _ for  _ no reason  _ and- _ ”  _

He takes a deep breath, shaky and uncertain as though he’s on the brink of tears again. The lioness cuts him off before he can continue.

_ ‘You are stronger than you think, Cub.’  _ She replies, giving a tired yawn, almost annoyed with him as a parent may feel to an insistent child.  _ ‘I pick my paladins well, so calm yourself.’  _

“Calm myself?” Shiro stares at her in disbelief, anger rising behind his eyes. “How am I supposed to be calm? Look at this situation and tell me again to be calm. Go on, I dare you.”

The lioness seems to sigh.  _ ‘Calm or not,’  _ she replies.  _ ‘There is still much you need to learn, starting with hiding me from your healer, I wish you luck explaining me to him if you choose not to.’  _

Shiro’s eyes widen. “O-oh God,” he stutters, looking around for something to cover the black lion with, the anger disappearing and being replaced with pure terror.  

_ ‘No not like that,’  _ she replies, frustration creeping into her cold tone..  _ ‘Will me to change, to the bed shadow perhaps.’  _

“Why do I have to do it?” He asks, panic rising in his throat again, closing him in.  _ Not now, not now, not now…  _

_ ‘Shush cub,’  _ she retorts.  _ ‘Action first, questions when the time comes. Now if you please…’  _

He stops as a feeling bombards his mind, an idea like a blueprint behind his eyelids. Before he can think, ponder it, his brain is imagining the lioness turning to shadow on the ground, slinking beneath the hospital bed and resting until needed. He watches as the thought becomes a reality and the lioness disappears into nothing just as footsteps can be heard outside the door. 

Shiro turns around, his eyes and mouth blown to saucers in size as the door creaks open. 

 

The water ripples and becomes empty of images and sounds. Allura remains over the bowl for a few more moments, paralysed by what she’s seen. Shiro, the black lion, the hospital room, the missing limb. Then, it hits her. 

_ Keith.  _

 

+++

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *clenches fist* i love my children,,, so much,,,   
> song is here: ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ELsryzJ5Hpg )
> 
> so! i edited the past two chapters a little and made some changes. to save you the trouble of you all going back, here's some things you need to know:   
>  \- Keith's lion's name is Shinku   
>  \- Shrio tells the doctor he is twenty-seven years old   
>  \- The current season is autumn
> 
> thank you all for reading and also the comments and kudos! i appreciate more than words can describe when i see all of this kindness and feedback.   
> again, thank you.


	4. Patient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet Shiro and Hunk freaks out.

It’s 4am and Lance still isn’t back home. 

The dark is starting to lift, tinting the sky pinks and purples with the kiss of the morning sun. A few scattered stars remain, tiny pinpricks of light in the cotton candy sky. He’s cold, having left the enclosed bar in nothing but a t-shirt and leaving himself vulnerable to the bite of Autumn. He’s also less than a little bit tipsy, tripping over his feet every now and then and slurring one out of ten words. 

It’s a bad time of night for a tipsy Cuban to be walking around in the dark. He wishes he hadn’t been late to catch the damn train. But shit happens and if anyone has learned to roll with that, it’s Lance Mcclain. 

 

Maybe buying a slurpee at four in the morning wasn’t the best idea he’s ever had, buy it couldn’t be the worst. Even though the cold drink is taking what little heat he has left in his body, a forgotten hoodie in the back room of the bar the culprit. He’s sitting down on the train platform, legs spread wide enough to take up all three seats beside him and obnoxiously drinking from his slurpee with a loud and jarring sound. It’s his way of paying back the universe for making him miss the train and the universe, aka the guy sitting a few benches down, is very annoyed. He glares at Lance like he’s just shot this guy’s entire family, stolen his dog and thrown his wifi modem down a cliff. Lance side-eyes him as he waits for the train, feeling a prickle of self consciousness washing over him in short bursts with every passing second of stink-eye.

He’s rescued from the static silence filled with unspoken profanities by a call from Pidge, an unflattering shot of her being attacked by her cat flashing on his screen. He gives the other guy on the train platform a small glare, asserting himself, before he picks up the phone and answers it with a tap of the screen. 

“What’s up?” He says into the phone, taking another sip from the slurpee. He sounds relaxed, feels distant from the conversation.  

“You better get your ass over here real soon,” Pidge says, as though Lance hadn’t even spoken. Lance feels a prickle of worry somewhere in him, but the alcohol leaves him distant from it. “Hunk is worried sick, I’ve got a lead and Allura keeps fucking calling me and asking for you. I told you that if you two started dating again I was not going to fucking do this anymore. Talk to your girlfriend on your own, Jesus.” 

“Woah, calm down,” Lance replies, sitting up straighter in his chair as he starts processing the barrage of information. His brain fumbles, tries to pick up on a tie between anything.  “Lead on what?” He asks. “And me and Allura dating was a  _ long  _ time ago Pidge, are you having flashbacks due to an existential crises or something?” He continues. Another thoughtful sip from the slurpee. 

“Lead on my dad and brother you dolt,” She replies. There’s preoccupation in her voice as there usually is when she speaks, her attention not on a person or a conversation, but usually a machine. He can hear the keyboard clicks on the other end of the line. “And why else would she be asking for you? Forgive me for assuming the  _ logical  _ fucking conclusion.” 

“I was having a good time and I honestly feel so attacked right now,” Lance says absently, drinking again from the slurpee. He leans back and considers buying another when he realises it’s almost finished. 

“You’re using that meme wrong!” Pidge yells, defensive and less than a little annoyed. “Look, you know what? I don’t have time for your bullshit. Meet Hunk and I at your place, okay? Cool, great, bye Lance.”    
The line goes dead so quickly it gives Lance vertigo. He sighs, leans back more in his seat. 

He waits for a few more moments and feel the alcohol slip away slowly. A nausea comes to replace it, the sky shaking with its awakeness and the ground doing the same. He looks for an incoming train, sees nothing, feels dizziness grip him like a vice. 

“What the fuck?” He murmurs, closing his eyes tightly. Rubbing his forehead. 

He feels the platform lurch beneath him and the world spins like a carousel, sounds coming to him garbled like music. 

He leans over and almost retches on the platform, dry heaving for a moment and clutching his stomach. 

“What the fuck?” He says again. 

Maybe he’s more than just a little tipsy.

He didn’t even drink that much either, only a flask of beer and a bit of tequila. Being a bartender gave him a good tolerance for alcohol, so why does he feel like this? 

_ Maybe…  _

Lance thinks, retraces his steps in his spinning and horribly aching head. He considers, trying to find a four-legged friend and...

_ Oh, shit.  _

He jumps up, looking around, eyes panicked and stance wild;  trying to find the blue tint in his shadow, a slight ripple in reality somewhere near him. He swivels, the sky darts in and out of his focus. He can feel bile rising in his throat. 

“Cielo!” He calls out into the darkness, the world spinning and swirling around him, swallowing back as much panic as he can. The train station becomes a pool of bending and twisting colours and shapes until almost nothing is distinguishable. 

_ Shit shit shit shit.  _

He staggers and wobbles outside of the train station, calling for Cielo, feeling the world fall from his feet. He doesn’t make it far, trips over before he reaches the stairs and walks the wrong direction instead, back towards the bench he had just been sitting at. 

The hoodie. Cielo had been laying on the hoodie and he had  _ forgotten  _ him. 

_ No no no no no.  _

The man who had been death staring him only moments ago notices his panic and staggering movements, stands up and moves to help him. 

Lance can’t see him, can’t see anything save for the swirling nothingness of the Earth. How did he let this happen? How did he let this happen  _ again _ ?

He feels pain flaring up at his side before the world turns black, a spinning darkness. 

And then everything is quiet. 

 

+++

Keith gets the call at five in the morning.

The voice is regal and commanding but tired-sounding. The voice of a receptionist. He cracks open eyes laden with sleep, looking out the window and seeing the slightest peak of the sun over the horizon. 

“Hello,” it says. Distinctly feminine in the bends and dips of it a slightly exhausted southern drawl. “I’m Dianne calling from the Berkley Public Hospital. Is this Keith Kogane?” 

Keith raises an eyebrow, sitting up in his bed, rubbing his eyes and pushing the hair in his face back with a single hand. 

“Uh, yeah…” He mumbles, throwing his sheets to the side and kicking his legs off the bed, bare feet hitting carpet. “Why?” 

“We brought your brother in a few days ago,” she murmurs, nonchalant. As if her words aren’t life changing, as if what she says won’t shatter his world to pieces. His eyes widen. “He’s currently ready to have visitors.” 

“M-my brother?” Keith freezes, his knuckles turning white as he grips the phone in his hand. He processes it, tries to break it down and his brain splutters and fumbles over itself. “Do you mean Shiro? Do you have Shiro?” 

He hears clicks on the other side of the line. The silence, though short, kills him. It twists his stomach into knots and has him reeling, falling over himself. “Shirogane Takashi,” she says, a feigned brightness in her voice, looking through words on a screen. “Also known as Shiro. Yes, we have him, he requested to see you and we found your phone number in some files on the system.” 

Keith gapes, his words dead on his tongue. A broken piece of himself begins to heal, hope sealing its wounds. 

Shiro is back. 

Shiro is alive. 

And he asked for  _ him.  _

Not Allura, or Coran but him; Keith Kogane. 

“Are you still there?” Dianne asks. 

“U-uh,” He fumbles, stutters wildy. He gets up quickly, looking around his room for a pen. “Y-eah. What hospital did you say you were again?” 

“Berkley Public,” she replies, obviously done with the conversation, ready to get onto her next job. Keith finds a pen, writes the words on his hand in a messy scrawl. The ink smudges blue over his hand. “Visiting hours are nine to four.” He writes that down too, twisting his arm to fit it. 

“Okay,” Keith says, dragging his attention back to the phone call. “Thanks Dianne, really.” 

He hangs up, clutching his phone in one hand and wearing a face of shock. 

_ Shiro is alive.  _

_ He asked for me.  _

He stands in the middle of his room for a few moments, all alien boxer shorts and full blown bedhead contemplating what the fuck just happened. 

_ Shiro is alive.  _

He sprawls back on his bed, unable to take the thought standing. 

_ And he asked for  _ me. 

He closes his eyes, ready to fall asleep so his subconscious can think it over. He rolls over onto his side, phone resting close to his face. He closes his eyes, takes deep breaths and feels three days of fatigue falling over him. He slowly slips into sleep...

 

Then his phone rings again. 

 

A photo of Allura pops up on the screen, eyes crystal blue and alive, grinning at the camera a little awkwardly.  He opens his eyes, cocks his head. It’s  _ way  _ too early for her to be awake without a very,  _ very _ good reason. More confused than worried, he picks it up. 

“Keith!” 

He pulls the phone away from his ear abruptly as the shriek emanates from it. He’s already done with being awake and it’s only been half an hour. 

“Holy shit,” He replies. “Why are you awake, it’s fiv-” 

Allura cuts him off, barely letting him get in a breath before she bombards him with more words. He winces, the sound jarring.  

“Shiro!” She yells, and he can hear the slight break in her voice, the sadness there that’s been there for two years. “He’s alive, I saw him-” 

“Yeah thanks Allura,” He replies, lying on his back, laying a hand over his eyes to block out some of the stimuli around him. “The hospital told me, you’re a bit late.” 

Allura stops at that, the line going silent as she thinks about it. His eardrums sigh with relief. 

“They called you?” She asks. 

“They said Shiro asked for me,” he replies. Let’s the enormity of that settle with her as it had settled with him. “That he asked for his brother.” 

“Did they tell you…” She trails off. “Did they tell you anything else? Anything  _ odd  _ about him?” 

Keith glowers into the ceiling.He runs a hand through his hair, fingers getting trapped in tangles. “No?” he says. “What are you getting at here?”

Allura takes a deep breath, rights herself. 

“Well I was woken up by a dream,” she pauses again. “And well” She coughs, the weight of the truth heavy in her lungs. 

“What?” Keith can’t handle the suspense, pressures her. Makes her choke it out. 

“Shiro was chosen by the black lion.”

“Yeah I-” He stops. 

“Shiro was chosen by  _ what  _ now?” 

+++

“Are you okay, Hunk?” 

 

They’re at Lance and Hunk’s place, sprawled over the cushions that serve as the couch. The TV flashes over the coffee table, muted for the courtesy of the drowsy tenants. Melemele lays over Hunk’s belly, sleeping soundly . Pidge’s lion, small and a forest green, curls up behind her as she types something on her phone. 

“I’m fine,” he murmurs. Pidge raises an eyebrow, looking over the side of her phone at Hunk. She tosses her head back, glasses sliding over the bridge of her nose and over her forehead instead. 

“Do you believe Hunk’s bullshit, Celery?” She asks. Celery makes a low growling sound. Pidge huffs. “Yeah, I agree. Such bullshit. What’s going on buddy?” 

Hunk groans, wiping a hand over his face. Mele growls at him, unhappy that her bed is moving and making noise. Hunk can’t blame her. 

“I just have a really bad feeling,” he says. “And it’s 4:30, Lance should’ve been home an hour ago. I tried calling him after you did and he wouldn’t pick up. Something feels really  _ wrong,  _ Pidge”

Pidge makes a humming noise, thinking it over. “You want me to track his phone?” She asks. 

Hunk raises an eyebrow. “Um,” he says. “How?” 

Pidge scoffs. “It’s simple GPS technology,” She says with a shrug. “I just need his email and I can find him.” 

_ “ _ You know Lance’s email?” 

“His password is literally harambe69, it took me like five minutes to guess it.”

Hunk chuckles a little, Mele letting out a small growl as he does so. It’s weak though, uncertain on his breath. 

Pidge opens her mouth to speak again but is cut off by a beeping sound from her computer. 

She turns. 

“Welp,” She says, lifting herself from the couch. She shuffles over to the coffee table and looks at the screen, fixing her glasses on her face to take a look. Her eyes widen and she gasps. 

“What?” Hunk says, raising his head to get a better look. His mobility is very much compromised thanks to the giant lioness lying on him. 

“My thingy picked up mentions of that Shiro guy I told you about,” She says, looking at the screen. “He’s at the hospital, we gotta go.” 

She jumps up, shoving her computer into a backpack. Hunk just groans. 

“But I don’t wannaaaaaa,” He pouts. 

“I don’t care,” she says. “You’re coming with me. Let’s go let’s go let’s go…” 

Her voice fades out as she flies through the hallway, searching for some warmer clothes. Hunk sighs and gives Mele a nudge. 

“Come on girl,” he whispers. “We gotta go help Pidge.” 

Mele opens her eyes, fixing Hunk with a less than pleased stare.  “Yeah, me too.” He replies. “Come on, I have to put shoes on.” 

Melemele growls but moves off of Hunk’s belly, giving him freedom to move again. The lack of warmth makes him feel a little empty, more uncomfortable than before. He shudders but says nothing, slipping a pair of sneakers on and searching for a hoodie to put on. 

Pidge runs back into the room wearing three layers, two of which are Lance’s and a scarf which belongs to Hunk. She pulls a beanie over her hair and drapes her backpack over one shoulder. 

Hunk looks her over briefly. 

“It’s Autumn, Pidge,” He says. 

“I’m from Phoenix,” She replies, unflinching. “Now come on, I don’t have all day. I’ll do a search for Lance while you drive.” 

“Why am I driving?” 

“Because I don’t have a license yet, duh.” 

“Wait wh-” 

“Shush, just get your keys. I’ll meet you there.” 

Pidge darts out of the apartment, running down the stairs three at a time faster than he’s ever seen her move before. He sighs and looks around for his keys, finding them underneath one of the couch cushions. 

It only has three keys and a little lucky cat charm dangles from the silver ring. He stuff it on the pocket of his hoodie and walks down the stairs. 

He reaches the car with both Melemele and Celery in tow. 

The car was an old Yugo, a budget model Lance and Hunk had managed to score off of a dodgy salesman from Oregon in exchange for a box of instant noodles and a can of sprite. It was ratty and smelled of cats thanks to the lions they often shoved in the back seat. They called him Yugioh for obvious reasons. Pidge balances on her heels in front of the car, jumping from foot to foot. 

“You are so  _ slow _ ,” She groans, waiting for Hunk to unlock the car. 

“Sorry,” He replies with a shrug, unlocking Yugioh with a turn of the key in the door and well placed kick. He crawls over to the driver’s seat through the passenger side and Pidge follows close behind. 

Celery and Melemele follow as shadows, reforming in the backseat. Pidge slams the door while Hunk buckles himself in, fiddling with the ignition. 

She opens up her computer immediately, the artificial light reflecting off of her glasses. 

“Where are we going?” Hunk asks. 

“Berkley Public Hospital,” she replies. “Just up on 47th.” 

Hunks nods, pulling out of the parking space. 

“Are you looking for Lance?” He asks, pushing his foot down on the accelerator and moving the car at a very reasonable speed. 

“Yeah,” Pidge replies, scanning a page. “It’s just trying to locate his phone now.” 

Hunk nods, feeling the familiar worry knot in his stomach. He swallows it back, banishes it to where it came from.  _ It’ll be okay _ . 

 

_ It’ll all be fine.  _

 

+++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... i have another chapter of this fic that i need to edit, but then i may not continue it until next year. i apologise for such a long wait for this chapter and this news, but i'll hope you'll all be able to bear with me. thank you so much for reading up until this point, i appreciate it greatly.


	5. Parapraxes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is Lance okay? Who knows???

"Come back baby, don't you cry  
Don't you drain those big blue eyes  
I've been crawling  
Come back baby, don't you cry  
Just you say the reason why _  
I can calm you..."_

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

Shiro hasn’t slept since the lion appeared. 

The low sound of breathing from below him keeps him wide awake, the haunting thoughts of only a few hours previous rattle in his head. 

He wants to get up, move around and be just a little more free than he is now, but he’s not supposed to. It’s killing him, the suspense of waiting and the looming threat of the shadow beneath his bed. It’s enough to drive him insane, but he keeps himself centred, thinking as clear as he can. 

_ Keith.  _

 

Shiro doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’d last seen Keith. It could have been weeks, months; maybe even years. The ache in his chest when he thinks of him makes him think it’s been a very long time. The memories from before he went missing are clearest around Keith, his brother by default. 

He casts his eyes to the clock on the wall, standing in place of a television. It ticks down the hours that he’s been waiting, sleeplessly, for his visitor. The clock tells him he has three hours left, a hand over the six  being the reminder. The ticking rattles in his head.

_ Tic, tic, tic.  _

_ Keith. Keith. Keith. _

 

And the time passes, second-by-second, until he falls into a restless half-sleep. 

  
  


+++

 

Pidge is tired. 

She’s no stranger to late nights, all-nighters, or rising with the stars. Her average of sleep throughout the week is maybe four hours, a habit she picked up in highschool and forgot to ditch in college. 

The caffeine keeps her wideawake for the other twenty hours she’s up, but even the seven cups she’s had since noon are not enough to rid her of this feeling. 

It’s less of a tired based on not sleeping, not so much the tired that you get after a caffeine crash or just coming out of an exam you crammed all night for. It’s a fatigue in her bones, one nibbling at her soul and leaving her drained. 

Caffeine can’t cure it and Hunk is not helping. 

 

He’s pulled them over in front of the entrance to the hospital, his dark eyes wide and knuckles white over the steering wheel. She can see the tired in him too, the worry knitted just below the surface. Out of mind but not out of sight. 

“What do you mean Lance is in hospital?” 

Pidge sighs, adjusts her glasses on her face. She and her brother had the same prescription, but nowhere near the same head size. 

“I mean that Lance is in the hospital,” she replies. She turns her laptop around to face Hunk, showing him the screen. She gestures to it vaguely. “That blue arrow is us and that bright green dot is Lance’s phone.”

Hunk squints at it, making sure she’s not lying to him, that his  _ eyes  _ aren’t lying too him. He looks from Pidge to her computer and back again for a few moments. He stops, turns around. Releases his hands from the wheel and holds his face in them, muttering to himself. 

_ Fuck.  _

She stares att him for a moment, hearing Hunk briefly mumble  _ “i knew it”  _ to himself. She closes her laptop, plunging the car in darkness and leaving Hunk silhouetted by the streetlights outside. She raises her hand and, tentatively, pats on Hunk on the shoulder. 

“Uh,” she says, cursing humanity silently. “There, there.” 

Pidge was nothing short of a genius. A kid who graduated high school when she was fourteen and starting university at fifteen. She was studying to be an engineer and was the top of her class. There wasn’t a single problem she had encountered which she couldn’t solve with a few calculations and a bit of hard work. Except for the problems concerning emotions. It was a cliche, the fact that she couldn’t do a thing if someone started crying, couldn’t budge if two people were having an argument not based on logic. Yet, she seemed to be the one people came to when things in their life went south, snotty nose and teary eyes. Apparently she gave good advice or some shit like that. 

So in a beaten up old Yugo, with Hunk muttering in between quiet sobs, the best she can do is pat him on the shoulder and tentatively whisper “there, there” over and over again. 

“I should’ve made him stay home today,” he murmurs, voice muffled by his hands. Pidge has given up on her pathetic attempts at comfort and instead runs a search for Lance’s name on the hospital database. 

“You didn’t know he’d be in the hospital,” she replies. “He might not even be a patient, he could just be waiting for someone or maybe he just got drunk?”

“I  _ did  _ know though Pidge,” He says, ignoring her last sentence through the anxiety written all over his features. He’s staring out the window now, watching the sun rise in the sky. “I’ve been having a bad feeling all day, a really bad feeling. I didn’t know what would happen or when, but I should’ve just  _ kept him safe _ .” He looks like he’s going to melt down again, voice cracking and tears forming in his eyes. Pidge quickly swoops in before he has the chance. 

“Why don’t we go in and ask?” She says, shutting her laptop and shoving it into her bag. “It’s better than sitting in here and wondering what’s up with Lance.” Hunk sniffs, thinks for a moment and then complies without another word, opening the door and stepping out into the cool Autumn air. Pidge sighs with relief, glad to not have to deal with feelings for the time being. She hoists her bag over her shoulder and opens the door, stepping out onto the sidewalk. 

The green and yellow shadows follow in her wake, slinking across the ground to their paladin’s shadows, giving them a sense of security, a little bit of extra power to make it through the rest of the morning. 

Pidge checks her watch, green numbers glowing back at her that read 6:34. 

_ Too fucking early _ . 

They walk through the sliding doors which give at their presence, welcoming them into a room that reeks of antiseptic. Hunk wrinkles his nose, awakening memories that he doesn’t want to come back, especially not now. He takes a deep breath, strides up to the counter with old tears in his eyes and Pidge in tow. 

The receptionist looks up from the computer and gives him a smile. She’s all blonde hair and deep blue eyes, so much so that they look purple. 

“Hi there,” she says brightly. “Can I help you?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Hunk replies. “I’m looking for Lance Mcclain? Apparently he’s in this hospital.” Pidge chimes in, nose barely reaching the counter. She holds up a terribly unflattering photo of Lance covered in chickens and scowling at the feathers in his hair to the receptionist. 

“He looks like this,” She says. “We’re his family and he didn’t come home last night, so we tracked his phone and found it here.” 

The receptionists looks at them for a moment, the pale short kid with freckles up her arms, honey brown hair and glasses; and the tall, plump and dark-skinned boy with dark hair and tear tracks down his face. She shrugs and types something into the computer. She doesn’t get paid enough to ask questions. 

“We do have him,” she says and Hunk can feel his knees almost give out with the sheer  _ relief  _ that he’s here, but also the dread of knowing what could possibly have happened. “He was awake half an hour ago but he’s gone to sleep again. If you sit down in the waiting room I’ll have someone get you when he wakes up.” 

Hunk is still paralysed with the relief and anxiety lurking in the pit of his stomach, the back of his mind. He doesn’t move or speak and Pidge catches on, shoving him towards the waiting room. 

“Thanks a lot ma’am,” she calls over her shoulder. “Really appreciate your help.” 

Pidge drags Hunk along to the waiting a room, a dismal area with the same uniform chairs and a tv hanging on one of the walls. Toys and magazine litter the floor and tables. A child and their mother sit on the far side of the room, the child playing with a car toy on the floor and the mother watching with a distant expression, mind elsewhere. 

They sit as far away as they can, the two in the corner. 

“Am I a bad friend Pidge?” Hunk asks, staring at the child. Pidge inwardly screams. It’s too early in the morning to deal with this. At 9pm, it would still be too early in the morning for Pidge to deal with her friend’s feelings. 

“No, you’re not.” She says simply, firmly. End of discussion. 

“But Lance-” 

“He’s going to be  _ fine  _ Hunk,” she says, trying to put a little softness into her voice. “And it’s not your fault, okay? Shit happens and you can’t go around blaming yourself for all of the wrongs in the world.” 

Hunks sniffles, but says nothing. He leans back into the chair, slouched and defeated. Pidge sighs. 

They sit in silence for another twenty minutes, the clock ticking in time with the sound of the child ramming a toy car into the legs of a chair. 

Pidge takes out her computer,, starts searching the hospital’s files for information on Lance. There’s not much. Just his name and description and so far the only diagnosis is ‘unconscious’. 

She keeps digging, refreshing the feed every now and again, searching for something new. After half an hour, she gives up looking for information on Lance and takes stock of her surroundings. The mother and child are still there, but the child has become fascinated with the television, eyes wide and watching, taking it in. 

The room itself is less of a mess than before, somebody must have come in and put the magazines back on the tables and scattered toys in a box beneath them. 

She sees Hunk, who is now sleeping with his head thrown back and mouth open to her left. She smiles fondly.  _ A lot quieter when he’s sleeping _ . She turns to her right and almost jumps out of her skin at the presence of someone right next to her, his eyes staring ahead. 

He looks like an absolute mess, eyes rimmed with red and hair knotted around his pale face, stray strands flying all over the place. He sits on the edge of his seat, his hands in his jacket pockets and dark eyes staring straight ahead. Somehow, he sense Pidge staring at him and turns around to face her. 

His eyes look hollow and tired, almost as tired as she feels, red rimmed and glassy. She gives him a light smile, trying to make the situation slightly less awkward for the both of them. 

“Hey,” She says, crossing one leg over the other and relaxing into her chair. She makes her posture less tense and more welcoming, friendly. 

He stares at her and she almost feels bad. This kid looks like he’s ready to jump out of his own skin and hightail it into the afterlife. She sees his swallow, reevaluate. 

“Hi,” he replies, not bothering to put on a smile.  _ At least he replied.  _

“What brings you here at six in the morning?” she asks, easily, trying get this boy’s tense aura to unwind just a little. 

“Family,” He replies, averting his eyes and putting his hands in his pockets. “You?” 

“The same,” she says. “Well, actually a friend, but he feels like family to me.” 

He snorts a little under his breath. “I understand that.” 

“Yeah?” Pidge perks up, always up for any information she can drag out of someone. “What do you mean?” 

He shrugs. “Well my brother,” he pauses, reevaluates what he’s saying in his head. “Well, he’s not really my brother. We’re not related by blood or marriage or anything. We just… Ended up together and never left.” He slides down in his chair and shuts his mouth as if he’s said too much, an agent who’s disclosed too many secrets. 

Pidge nods. “Yeah, my friends are like that too. They’re pretty much brothers to me.” She looks over at Hunk who’s snoring like a tipped cow off to the side, his mouth wide open. “My name’s Pidge by the way.” She extends a hand to him, feeling bad for prying but also wanting more. 

He looks at her hand, shakes it tentatively with leather fingerless gloves. “Keith,” he replies. He lets go quickly, obviously not liking the contact. 

She can respect that. 

They sit in silence for a few moments before, surprisingly, Keith starts the conversation again. He clears his throat before he speaks, as if giving her and opening to shut him up. When she doesn’t, he continues hesitantly. 

‘What’s your friends’ names?” He ask. “It’s that big guy over there and the dude you’re waiting for, right?” 

Pidge nods, casting another look Hunk’s way. He continues to snore shamelessly. 

“That’s Hunk,” she says, gesturing towards him. “Don’t let the name or appearance fool you though, he’s probably the nicest guy you’ll ever meet.” 

He looks over at him and Pidge can see just the slightest hint of a smirk on the edge of his mouth. “And the other guy?” 

Pidge snorts. “Oh yeah,” she says. “That’s Lance. He’s always managing to get himself into trouble and is what the kids call a major douchebag. He has a heart of gold though, underneath all of that.” 

Keith’s eyes widen a little, shocked. 

“Is he tall and skinny with freckles and dark skin?” He asks, recalling events only hours before. The neon dancing over the glaze in his eyes, the smell of alcohol heavy in the air. Pidge looks at him for a moment. 

“Uh… yes?” she says. “How do y-”

“I met him,” he says. “Sometime around midnight at a bar. Shit, is he okay?” 

Pidge gives him a once over, reassessing. She’s no longer interested in his personal life or the little things that make him who he is. Now she wants the information he has, the information on Lance. 

“I don’t know,” she replies to his earlier question, trying to ease the tension that’s jolted back into his frame. “I tracked his phone and it brought me here, I don’t know anything about what happened.”

“He was fine when I met him,” he says, voice quiet and contemplative. “A little tipsy, sure, but nothing that bad.” 

Pidge thinks, conjures up the images of the bar, Lance and Keith in her mind’s eye. They’re talking, Keith orders a “Red Death” and they have a light hearted conversation despite the circles under their eyes, despite the tear stains on Keith’s shirt. She can see it, but the edges are blurred, the images unclear. 

She tries to see farther into the scene, see what happened, but doesn’t have enough. Her picture is lacking. She opens her eyes and stares at Keith, her green gaze piercing. 

“Tell me  _ everything,”  _ she almost growls. 

 

+++

 

Allura deeply regrets never learning to drive at times. 

It leaves her in tricky positions, such as waiting at a bus stop for forty minutes before figuring out that said bus wasn’t coming for another few hours. 

Which then led to another tricky position, which was stealing a bike from the side of the road and pedalling in the direction of the hospital. 

Ten thousand years on this Earth meant that she saw little in cars, saw them as insignificant when they were introduced and therefore found no point in learning how to drive one. It was her mistake that had her murmuring an speed enchantment that fell over the stolen bike as it thundered into the rising sun. 

Her thoughts are haunted with images of the black lion, of Shiro. The scars on his body, the wisps of smoke-like shadow pooling around them. She flinches in her spell, slowing her down for a moment until she can start her mumbling again. Normally, she wouldn’t need words to focus her enchantments, her mind was sharp enough. But today was not normal, today her mind was foggy, her thoughts jumpy and not concrete in any way. 

She pulls into the hospital parking lot, the bike screeching to a halt as the yellow incantation shimmers and disappears onto the tarmac. She swings her leg over the bike, long platinum hair following behind. She stands up tall, a visage of ethereal power and grace, all dark skin and vivid blue eyes, dressed in pink Winnie the Pooh pyjamas. 

She storms into the hospital building, wild and unkempt. Fierce with anxiety and a need to find him. Them. 

She walks up to the counter, exuding as much friendliness as she can. Shiro called for Keith, not her, and the negativity she feels towards that will provide little comfort for the receptionist. She smiles brightly. 

“I’m looking for Shirogane Takashi,” she says before the receptionist can speak. Allura is clear, precise in the way she speaks. If she has a point to make, she will make it, often bluntly. 

“Yes,” the receptionist replies, her voice startled. “He’s here. Visiting hours start at nine though, so you’ll have to wait in the break room.” 

Allura checks the clock that floats on the wall above the receptionist’s head. It reads seven in the morning. She groans to herself, not excited for the waiting. 

“Thank you,” she says to the receptionist, as positive as she can muster. “Where’s the waiting room?” 

She gestures to the right. “Just follow the signs.” 

Allura gives her a final smile before moving to the waiting room. 

 

+++ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this far! I apologise for such a long wait between chapters, and I wish I could say that it was going to change, but I'm very busy at the moment. However, in light of season 2, I have a lot more ideas as to where this is going to go and how I'm going to end it. So thank you for sticking around.   
> If you like what I do and enjoy Klance, I write a self-indulgent fic at: http://archiveofourown.org/works/8631979/chapters/19793827 . Go give it a read if you like!   
> See you next chapter :)

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed this even slightly! it's my first contribution to this lovely fandom and i really just want to do this characters proud,,,  
> feel free to leave me a message in the comments or to my tumblr which is here: (http://tea-pun.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> the quote at the beginning is from this song: (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dh7k69AeM7M)  
> i'm terribly sorry if any of my use of language was incorrect in this chapter and urge anyone to help me with this (my spanish is terrible and i had to google search the hawaiian word for yellow).
> 
> also, i may add to the pairings within the next two chapters, though i'm not one hundred percent sure just yet. 
> 
> thanks for reading~


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